


Hands

by Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Experimental Style, Hand & Finger Kink, Id Fic, It's not really kinky but there's hands in here, M/M, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 11:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18570610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker/pseuds/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker
Summary: Varis contemplates the loveliness of a man he should keep at a professional distance - but how can he, when his mind is consistently laid bare? What can he hide in the presence of a Resonant, and why doesn't hewantto?OC x Canon: Attempt 2.





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> An innocent bit of sweetness, considered as part of Lucius's canon story and a part of slowburn relationship development I can't seem to coherently string together.  
> Really, I just wanted to write a delicate moment between these lads, and explore Varis's feelings.
> 
>  
> 
> For more info about Lucius, please click [here!](http://lucius-ffxiv.tumblr.com/about)

He has the hands of a pianist, not a soldier.

Varis idly gazes into his lap where the fingers of his adjutant rest. One year he’s had this man in his service - Lucius Batiatus, a pureblooded perfectionist through and through. Faithfully has he served his Emperor’s every whim, from the shuffling of his paperwork to the braiding of his hair. Only in recent times has he grown bold enough to lay hands upon His Radiance, Varis fumbling through the delicate dance of companionship with one who barely knows the steps.

It is of little matter now – Lucius is asleep, his golden head pressed to Varis’s broad chest. He looks fragile; glasslike, pale skin almost translucent against regal crimson robes and gold trim. On his left thigh rests a closed book – _Psychosomatic Memories and You –_ Varis had been holding it while he turned the pages, bathed in gentle afternoon sunlight. They oft sit here together lounging in an armchair, Lucius curled up in the Emperor’s lap with his eyes closed, able to read through his presence in Varis’s mind. After an hour, however, he had grown far too relaxed and forgone page-turning in favor of resting his weary head. Varis gazes upon him with something like pity – it is neither bitter nor sorrowful, rather soft and sad – the man has not been sleeping well, he can see it in the darkness beneath his eyes. Eyes that no longer glow Resonant red – truly, he has succumbed to the sleep of the dead, chest rising and falling near imperceptibly with scant breaths. Varis hasn’t the heart to jostle him awake – no, he needs his rest if he is to do his duties well, and abruptly he wonders if he’s been overworked.

Never before has this crossed his mind – not with his previous aides and certainly none of his Legatii. Almost all of them knew how to handle his temperament like it was a simple matter of smothering white-hot rage in a blanket of calm reassurance, obedience. All except Zenos, who Varis pushes from his mind with a minor shake of the head. His platinum blonde hair cascades in a silken hiss over one shoulder, falling before Lucius’s peaceful face. The man doesn’t even twitch, motionless save the slightest nuzzle into Varis’s chest.

 _‘Oh…’_ Varis’s thin lips twitch into a smile, momentary joy gracing his worn features. _‘Such a dear little thing…’_ Carefully, one hand rises to brush along Lucius’s cheek, shifting the lock of silvery blonde obscuring him from sight. He pauses, knuckles ghosting along the paper-thin shell of an ear, fingers gliding through flaxen, feathered curls. How can any man be this _soft_ , this serene, after all the anguish of war he’s seen?

 _‘I will never let you set foot on a battlefield again.’_ Varis strokes Lucius’s hair convinced he senses naught, heedless of the way pink lips part and long lashes flutter. _‘You poor, poor thing.’_ It is no blessing, the circumstances which brought Lucius here, but Varis thanks the winds of fate for spiriting him away from danger. From _Zenos_.

He remembers the way Lucius wouldn’t even look him in the eye when spoken to, always ready to take orders and never able to _converse_. It took a whole two months before he would even voice an opinion of his own (only when commanded, too) – and even then it would be something Varis _knew_ had been filtered and moulded for his sake. He runs his fingers past the scars on Lucius’s jaw, his throat untouched by the shrapnel that once struck his flesh. Twenty-two summers, and already his body is a map of territory left unconquered. Battles lost, allies screaming, guns and swords and fingers and faces and-

Lucius twitches, and Varis withdraws his hand. The pulse at his jugular hammers away as if stirred by an unseen threat, and Varis glances about the room before surmising it’s just a dream. A dream, but one causing his beloved- er, _hardworking assistant_ distress, the likes of which he will not entertain here, now. No – here and now does he shift the book from Lucius’s thigh to the nearby table, taking care not to disturb him too much. Settling back into the armchair, his left arm cradles Lucius whose face seeks his chest like a lost kitten, peaceful visage shadowed and strained.

“Shhh…” Varis holds him, free hand coming to rest thick fingers atop tightly balled fists. The white-knuckled grip upon his trousers loosens marginally, moreso when he turns one hand up and caresses the soft flesh of Lucius’s palm. The man shivers bodily, Varis continuing to trace his fingers around in circles. _‘Would that I could see what troubles your mind…’_

He’s barely aware of his own motions, so gentle and with care he’s neither seen nor received in all his life. This isn’t something he can solve with might or logic – completely out of his realm of expertise yet he moves without a moment’s thought, stroking Lucius’s palm. Varis contemplates its loveliness - he has not the hands of a warrior or gunman or even a white-gloved noble, but a lover born from a dream of dappled sunlight, jasmine petals. Pale silk, the likes of which drape across Lucius’s chest and curve so delectably about his waist. How beautiful he is in slumber, in waking, in life.

Varis’s thoughts run from him and bloom before his eyes, sensations slipping his grasp for how hard he tries to hold them, make sense of it all. Each morsel hangs golden and sweet yet his teeth scrape the surface, cannot bite down on the joy thriving within. Why does he feel what he does – what is it, and should it be there? The man in his lap he has known a mere twelve moons, and every hour he spends lacking his company is one he’d rather not. It is the Resonance, he is sure of it – Lucius can read his every whim and react accordingly, keeping his needs met without Varis even thinking to voice them. But there is only so far it can go – surely the man cannot influence these emotions within him, the sense of calm and safety that sinks into Varis’s frayed nerves whenever Lucius so much as looks at him. The warmth in his chest that buoys his weary heart into his throat, where it swells and sighs and _loves_ with all its might.

He pauses, fingers stilled atop Lucius’s upturned palm. _‘Is that what this is?’_ The word will not come to him but it is _known_ , hanging from the rafters of his carefully constructed mind palace, the hall of clear-cut strategy and neatly filed emotions beginning to crumble. Lucius is not there to patch it in sleep, and so Varis struggles to comprehend the surge of his soul, tears unshed glazing his sight to a blur.

With utmost delicacy does Varis pluck Lucius’s hand from his lap and lift it to his face, like a fine pastry meant to be savored with the eyes and nowhere near a wanting mouth. The hand of a pianist, long fingers and perfectly manicured nails, with the faintest blue shimmer beneath ivory skin. Prominent knuckles, bones and sinew and oh – a little callus under the fingerpads Varis notes with care. He draws the hand up to his face and glances down – Lucius yet sleeps like a man unconscious, blissfully unaware of the puppetry of his limbs. Varis’s face tenses, brows knit and lips pursed. Why is he doing this, why do those delicate fingers press to his cheek and –

He sighs, eyelids falling shut as the sensation of smooth digits trickle along his weathered skin. It is the kiss of a rose petal, feline paw pads in a fleece blanket, so soft and pure. Again and again the fingers rise and fall, Varis cupping Lucius’s palm to his cheek sun-warmed, enamored. A love he has never known thrives in the gentle touch, his own but not – here he can pretend, that someone is here for him and _only him_. He is the Emperor of Garlemald, and he can have whoever he pleases – but he does not _want_ for anything more than this.

He doesn’t even know what it is.

Varis’s heart near melts in his chest at the feel of Lucius’s thumb brushing his lips, limp wrist still caught in his tender grasp. Stilled, his eyes flicker beneath closed lids. To open them is to unravel the strands of joy singing through his soul, exalted and wondrous and _new_. He hasn’t felt something new in _such_ a long time, and even as he contemplates the breaking does Lucius shift his hand and stroke his cheek.

“Radiance…” Lucius breathes, voice thick with half-sleep. He doesn’t need more than his Resonance to see – nay, _feel_ Varis’s deep relaxation, the likes of which he’s never known in the Emperor’s presence. No longer does the constant tick of an overthinking mind hammer away at his conscience – it is the slow, steady beat of a heart at peace with the world.

Their world. Together.

Varis cracks open one eye, then the other to drink in the sight of his adjutant peering up at him, gaze the purest picture of adoration in creamy white and nacreous blue. Lucius isn’t reading him consciously, sensing through their growing bond how Varis regards him with utmost care while sheepishly holding his wrist. As embers of concern drift from the crackling worry-fire, Lucius exerts his will upon the Emperor to reassure him that nothing’s wrong. He _likes_ it, the firm grasp of a hand big enough to cover his whole face guiding him so he may better serve. He’s not known what to do otherwise, and even when Varis demands of him tasks better suited to a servant, he’s only ever complied with hands aquiver and eyes to the floor.

 _‘He wants me… to touch him…?’_ The response from Varis’s mind is a resounding _yes_ , from every fiber of his being and not a single word. Lucius complies, unsure if adjusting his position will shatter the delicate situation in which he’s perched upon the Emperor’s thigh, legs tucked off to one side and head on his chest. Varis’s arm around his waist idly strokes his stomach, sending ripples of sensation through the cool white silk.

So pure is the smile upon Lucius’s face that it encourages Varis to loosen his grip, and the hand at his cheek shifts with freedom into the Emperor’s hair. It combs through the luscious length of it without a single snag, luxuriating in the majesty of a beautiful, beautiful Galvus. Lucius adjusts himself just enough for Varis to prop him up higher, left hand coming to brush smooth knuckles against a sunken, sallow cheek. He gazes with resplendent joy into the still nervous flicker of Varis’s golden eyes, beaming warm and loving aethers through their burgeoning connection. And Varis feels it melt over him, seep into his bones and lift him up to a place where worries do not go. So high they cannot be seen lashing at his feet, even, for here there is only he and Lucius, in a land of silk and fleece and sun. It’s shining through the large window to the left, as this room is high enough in the Palace to reap the benefits of sunset over Garlemald, and not just a million black skyscrapers covered in snow. The pastries on the table have gone cold, but there’s enough heat between the two men that nothing else matters.

Lucius rises up on his knees and Varis grunts softly – his well muscled thighs can tolerate it, but that’s still some considerable weight. He eyes Lucius’s hands brushing his hair from his face, tucking errant strands into thick locks and sweeping it all behind his broad shoulders.

“There,” Lucius whispers. “Perfect.”

Varis lifts a brow. “Is that all?”

Lucius tilts his head, near to flicking his eyes on just so he can see what Varis _wants_. But he dares to take a chance – the first between them – and inquires, “Would you like it to be?”

A slow smile spreads across Varis’s face. “No.”

**Author's Note:**

> god I love Varis so much  
> If you’re interested in RPing something like this or otherwise trying some collaborative writing with Varis/Lucius, please leave a comment below! I’d love to write with you~  
> Thank you so much for reading. ;v;
> 
> PS. There's a next-day smutty sequel to this, which you can find [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21130223)


End file.
